The Adventure of the Detective's Son
by HoVis
Summary: It is a hot, sultry day in September and Holmes discovers the unthinkable. But is all entirely as it seems? Please read and review! COMPLETE.
1. Chapter One: Brandy and News

**A/N:** Hello all, and welcome to yet another of my Sherlock Holmes fics! For those who have read "The Adventure of the Detective's Marriage", this is roughly in the same vein, and possibly the start of a mini-collection of stories. For all my readers, remember as you peruse the following story - all is not as it seems. For those tempted to make comments about the stupidity of the plot: wait until the end to cast your judgement! And most of all, enjoy - I hope my writing lives up adequately to the worth of the Great Detective.

**Disclaimer:** These characters - i.e. Holmes and Watson - do not belong to me. To steal the phrase of other, far better writers on this site, I am "borrowing" them, and intend to put them back afterwards unharmed. Well... relatively so. Now, what are you doing wasting time on this disclaimer? Read on!

**The Adventure of the Detective's Son**

**Chapter One**

The records I have of Sherlock Holmes failing in the discovery of the solution of a case are rare, and the times in my memory of a criminal gaining the upper hand against him even rarer. The following account is unique, being the only case I have ever observed in which Holmes was himself the unwitting object of a cruel and clever deception. It is with some hesitation that I take up my pen to write the following words, for it was for Holmes a particularly painful and surprisingly personal experience, but since I doubt this shall ever be published I see no harm in putting my thoughts on paper. It is as close to a catharsis as I can come for either of us, and perhaps one day Holmes shall appreciate, or at least understand, the strength of my efforts.

It first began some months after Holmes' miraculous return from Reichenbach. It was a clear, fine day, but Holmes, with no case to study or mystery to solve, was more than content to lose himself in the fog of his malodourous science experiments. I had little to do and was, I must admit, a little downhearted, the day being the anniversary of my own one's death, and so chose to remain in Baker Street, going over old records and intermittently mentioning the possibility of a walk. I was, of course, ignored.

"Holmes," I said, after a time, "I believe you have a visitor." I had been watching the window and had so caught sight of the approach of a tall, proud-looking woman to the door of Baker Street.

Holmes glanced up sharply, his delicate experiment all but forgotten. After but a day's lack of mystery, his nostrils flared at the faintest scent of a mystery and a chase.

"A woman?" He said, cocking his head to one side as the light but certain step of our visitor made its way up the stairs. I inclined my head in defeat and made some effort to return order to the room before the lady entered. Even so, she gave a distinct, disapproving sniff as she entered and caught sight of the Great Detective, his sleeves rolled up and his hands and shirt flecked with the results of his latest foray into scientific investigation.

Holmes paid no heed to her apparent opinion of his favourite pastime, and reached carelessly for his pipe. She was tall, this woman; taller than I, and but a head shorter than Holmes. I could tell as Holmes looked down his pipe at her calm, regal bearing that he was, despite himself, impressed.

"Have a seat, madam." He said, nodding at a chair opposite the empty grate. She sat, as did Holmes and I. "And tell us your name. What is your purpose in seeking my help?"

The woman gave a haughty flick of her head.

"What makes you think I am here for your help, Sherlock Holmes? You may need mine before this day is through." Her eyes flicked towards me, and she gave a disgusted snort. "As for my name; that I shall tell you when you have sent your dog-eyed chronicler away."

I was far too shocked by her words to take offence at that moment, but Holmes more than made up for it on my behalf. His lips tightened and he laid his pipe down, all pretence at homeliness gone.

"Watson lives here, the same as I, and can come and go as he pleases. You can trust him just as well, if not more, than I with whatever secrets you may have to tell." He seemed to wish to say more, but he stopped, his eyes glittering. The woman did not seem ruffled by his words: on the contrary, she looked pleased. Her lips quirking slightly, she leant forward, her eyes fixed on Holmes.

"Oh, he is trustworthy enough, I am sure. I would trust him with _my_ secrets – but what if it is _your_ secrets which are revealed today? Would _you_ trust him then?" She smiled, but it was not a charming smile – it was the triumphant smile of a snake as it swallows its mouse. "And as for my name; O'Doherty. Is that enough for you to hear?"

At her final words Holmes became completely still, his face paler than I have ever seen it. He turned to me.

"Watson," he said, "earlier you were complaining that the air in here was somewhat stuffy. Perhaps now would be a chance to enjoy some fresh air." The words were uttered in a kind a tone as I knew Holmes was capable of, but the implication – that Holmes did not want me to be a part of this interview, and did not, as the woman said, fully trust me – stung. I stood up, nodding curtly.

"Very well," I said, turning for the door, "and how long do you suggest this enjoying of the fresh air take?"

If Holmes picked up on my sarcasm, he did not acknowledge it. He glanced back at his guest, this strangely powerful woman, then turned back and met my gaze. His eyes were entirely serious and I realised, with a sudden thrill of fear, or even excitement, that in this woman Sherlock Holmes had met an admirable match. In that moment I swore to myself to find the nearest bench and note down every detail of the woman's appearance and attitude whilst I had the chance. A pen and paper were, as ever, in my coat-pocket.

"Thirty minutes will, I am certain, suffice." He said. "Good-day, Watson."

I exited then, with his curt dismissal still ringing in my ears, and for the first time in our association it struck me that, if anyone possessed power, it was Sherlock Holmes – and he possessed it over me.

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I returned to Baker Street some time later, to find the woman gone and Holmes alone in the rooms. He was lying in his chair, an empty glass by his side and a peculiarly distant look in his eye. I hesitated, at finding him in such a mood, but spoke nonetheless.

"Our charming guest is gone, then, Holmes?" I could not, despite my jangling nerves, withhold from my tone a slight bite of bitterness. It had shaken me to encounter such open hostility from one of Holmes' clients – and a _woman_, of all people. That a female, with all pretences to gentleness and beauty, should speak in such a manner was almost beyond my understanding.

Holmes shook himself from his reverie, a slight frown of surprise at my presence accompanying his quiet reply.

"She is gone. I am sorry, Watson, that she spoke to you in such a way." But the words were uttered without strength or certainty; a thing which disturbed me in a man whose very livelihood was based on the mantra of _being_ certain.

"It is no fault of yours how your clients decide to vent their frustrations." I said, still unable to even my tone. "What did she have to say to you?"

Holmes stirred slightly, and I took his hesitation as the gravest offence.

"That is," I added, "if you can _trust_ me with her secret."

I turned, hoping to see that my words had ruffled Holmes' unchangeable demeanour, but he was, as ever, calm and collected. There was not even a spark of indignation in his eyes – merely the same distant, almost despairing, far-away look. When next he spoke, it was more to the wall, and his empty glass, than to me.

"But that it were only her secret that she had to reveal." He said. "And since it was not, is it truly wise to share it?" He looked up, then, and he surveyed me shrewdly. "Do you wish to hear it, Watson? Before you answer let me tell you this; that I have found myself in a... predicament quite unlike any we have encountered, together, before. Know that it is entirely of my own making, and that I have no right whatsoever to force another person to become involved."

I looked at him, all anger forgotten. There were lines of strain on his face which had not been there an hour before and, thinking back to his "predicament" with Moriarty some years before, I thought that my friend might be in some mortal danger, from which he wished to protect me. I was filled up with pity and compassion.

"Holmes," I said firmly, "whatever it is, you must tell me; as you said we have faced much together. Whatever this is I can assist you with it, as well."

Holmes held my gaze, a curious expression flitting across his face. Then he leant back in his chair, smiling slightly.

"Very well, Watson. You have convinced me. I suggest that you sit down, but before you do that, pour yourself a brandy. You may need it."

I did as he said, noting as I did that the decanter was almost empty. I glanced back at his empty glass. His strange mood, then, could be accounted for by inebriation. I sat down, the brandy in my hand, but with no intention of drinking it. If Holmes was in danger, one of us needed to have their wits about him.

"Very well, Holmes." I said. "I am ready. Tell me."

Holmes leant forward, frowning.

"Apparently, Watson," he said, looking almost comically amazed at the very words he was uttering, "I have a son."

Holmes was right. I did need the brandy.

888

**A/N:** Please tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter Two: Of Cause and Consequence

**A/N:** Hello all, and welcome to chapter two of our domestic little mystery! Thankyou all for your wonderful reviews - and allow me to spare a moment for a few responses!

**Z-SBS: **Thankyou (blushes). Hopefully this chapter will live up to expectations!

**amalcolm1:** Hmm, I see we have a shrewd one among us. I'm not sure if I will manage to convince you entirely in this chapter - Holmes is being tight-lipped - but, later... but for now, enjoy!

**Procyon Marie:** Here - have a glass. Baker Street finest brew, don't you know! Enjoy - the fic that is, rather than the drink!

**igbogal:** Thankyou for writing the review which got me out of the doldrums and eventually inspired me to update! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

And to **dottid**, **Susicar**, **snicketfan4ever** and **RL**, many thanks and keep on reading!

I hope this chapter isn't too bad - I suddenly get the sense that I'm being a bit traitorous to Conan Doyle's canon and style - I suppose its what comes from reading the Mary Russell series back to back over the holidays! Anyway, enough of my chat - read on!

**Disclaimer:** I own very little to do with Sherlock Holmes, save a somewhat dog-eared copy of the canon (I dropped it in the bath...), so suffice to say I definitely do not own the copyright!

**The Adventure of the Detective's Son**

**Chapter Two**

It was some time before I regained the power of speech. When I did, I glanced at my now-empty brandy glass and asked, in not the calmest of tones,

"We appear to have finished the brandy. Have you any more anywhere?"

Holmes' lips quirked at this, and before I knew it we were both laughing – Holmes with the unused, half-hysterical laugh of a man who rarely did so, and I with a sudden relief.

"You were pulling my leg, weren't you, Holmes?"

Holmes' laughter vanished instantly. His expression, and tone, both became unbearably sober.

"I am afraid not, Watson. That woman – O'Doherty – was the sister of a... young woman I once... knew."

Silence filled the room at this pronouncement, and Holmes smiled a little helplessly at my bewilderment.

"I fear this has come as something of a shock to both of us, Watson, and I fear also that I am doing little to ease _your_ shock by explaining in any way even approaching understandably. Perhaps I should start from the beginning – the _very_ beginning.

"Well, Watson, do you recall once penning the words that I would 'place myself in a false position as a lover'?"

I nodded, reluctantly. This was a conversation I didn't particularly want to have, and certainly not with Holmes. I think Holmes picked up on this, for his lips quirked in amusement.

"But what you didn't realise, Watson, was that I _already knew this_." I had been staring determinedly at the bottom of my empty brandy glass until this point, but at the sound of Holmes leaning forward I glanced up, and met his eyes. They were surprisingly gentle, and I realised that Holmes was telling me the very thing that the woman O'Doherty had doubted he could trust me with – his secret. So I swallowed my protests, and Holmes continued. "I knew this, Watson, from experience." He frowned. "Unfortunately, I did not realise at the time that this... experience was to have far longer-reaching consequences."

I frowned. I have encountered many strange and mysterious things in my association with Sherlock Holmes, but this I was not prepared for: talk of lovers and illegitimate sons. But I had promised to help Holmes. All the same, I could not help but feel a slight twinge of jealousy that he, who had never shown any desire for a family, should discover a son when I had had all my hopes taken from me with Mary's death. And yet, beneath that, I felt the familiar and yet quite inappropriate rush of curiosity; who was this woman, I wished to ask, who had somehow aroused in Holmes his romantic desire – and then borne him, unawares, a son?

"You mean the boy." I said, firmly quelling my desire to question Holmes further on the subject of the child's mother. Holmes, however – perhaps from a desire to avoid speaking of something he did not yet know how to deal with, perhaps not – seemed to pick up on my curiosity. He rose and turned so that he was facing the mantelpiece, and with surprisingly steady hands filled his pipe with tobacco.

"Yes, Watson... and yet, I suppose, you are more intrigued by the cause, and not the consequence. Am I right?" He turned and surveyed me with a knowing eye.

I flushed. I suppose that is what comes from living with another person for far too long, be they a detective or not; no thought is entirely private. I nodded, reluctantly.

"I can't deny it." I said, wondering briefly how this curiosity on my part would lessen me in the eyes of the reserved and undeniably secretive Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes paused for a moment before replying, his gaze thoughtful and, I mused, fixed on some point long in the past.

"It was before you knew me, Watson; not long after I had come to London. The first case – the first _client_ – which came to my door was both intriguing and fascinating." He eyed me carefully. "The woman who came to me impressed me in much the same way that your Mary did you, at the start of the Morstan case." He stopped, his expression unreadable. "Of course, I did not marry 'my' young woman, but then again, Watson, you have always been more suited to domesticity than I."

I was not entirely sure how to respond to this pronouncement, but I did my best.

"So if you did not marry her, Holmes... what did you do?" I did not ask the lady's maiden name: it seemed unnecessary, somehow.

Holmes smiled humourlessly.

"Watson, surely that is obvious, even to you? I would have thought that a doctor would understand the cause to the consequence with which I am faced." His tone was faintly teasing, but even that pale spark faded from his eyes as his tone became suddenly businesslike. "I courted her; I even convinced myself that I had wooed her. Do not ask me what attracted me to her, or to such a thought; I was young and admittedly foolish. We parted ways shortly before her twenty-fifth birthday." His tone quietened. "And she is dead now."

We sat in silence for some time, but as the clattering of carriages outside slowly lessened, and the sky paled to a cloudy, morose blue, Holmes rose and faced the window.

"The O'Doherty woman, Anna-Marie's sister – the boy's aunt and now his legal guardian – came to inform me of this, and her – my – child's existence today." He paused, then turned to me. "She will be coming again tomorrow, and she will bring the boy with her."

I nodded; I knew without being asked that my presence was, at that meeting at least, required. I recall thinking, then; poor child. To lose his mother, and then to be thrust upon a man he had never met – a man who, for all his genius in the art of detection and for all his many and varied talents, was possibly the last man to carry well the burden of fatherhood.

I also thought that Holmes had uttered the name "Anna-Marie" with an extraordinary gentleness, for him, and that his claim of not being able to say what had caused their brief and ill-fated courtship was, in fact, the fault of his own reluctance to examine and share such memories.

We spent a quiet evening, and neither of us spoke overmuch, and it was a relief to me to be able to retire and leave Holmes to his pipe and thoughts in front of the cold and empty fire.

I awoke the next morning to find Holmes gone, and he still had not returned when a sharp rap at the door preceded the entrance of the awful O'Doherty woman and Holmes' own nameless son.

I sighed. Apparently, this ordeal was to be mine.

888

"Mr. Watson." Miss – or Mrs – O'Doherty said, her expression sour, as she entered the room. Usually, I would have bridled somewhat at her impolite manner and deliberate use of the wrong title, but in that moment my attention was fixed completely on the child at her side. Holmes, damn the man, where was he? I wondered if, perhaps, he had contrived to be absent when the pair arrived, but put the thought from my mind as the child stepped forward, his expression nervous and his hand outstretched.

"Dr. Watson?" He asked, quizzically. His eyes, grey as a storm at sea, seemed to examine every feature of my appearance and of the room around him. As I noted the hawk-like hook of his nose, and his long, yet unfamiliarly still fingers, I realised with a sinking of my heart that the child's parentage could bear no questions. He was undoubtedly Holmes' son; down even to the way his young, all-knowing eyes swept the room. But there was something else in him as well, something he did not inherit from his father; a steadfastness, a youth and a quiet, ever-present energy that I had never observed in Holmes. True, when on a case Holmes would barely sleep for the energy in his veins – but somehow I could not envisage the young man before me falling into a hopeless stupor once a case was done, or of complaining loudly at a lack of work or inspiration. He did not seem the sort to welcome the stimulation of a drug, either.

"Yes," I said, eventually, "good morning to you." I felt hopelessly foolish – my only consolation was that perhaps Holmes would feel even more foolish at his own late entrance as I did at this awkward meeting.

"Good morning." He said politely, but still his eyes raked me up and down. I felt – as I often had in Holmes' presence – hopelessly inferior, like some microcosm placed under a microscope. Know that were this a published account, I would never admit to such things – but since I doubt this will ever leave my notebook, I can loosen my tongue, for once.

"Where is he?" The boy's aunt spoke up, her expression severe. "Is Mr. Holmes _away_?"

I winced – as, I noticed, did the boy – at the woman's icy tone. Her grip on his shoulder tightened. Poor child, I thought, to have such a woman as his guardian.

"It doesn't matter." The boy spoke up quickly, taking from me the necessity of doing so. "I think – you can go now, Aunt."

The woman stiffened at this, but the boy shot her such a disarming smile – definitely not a thing inherited from his father – that even her stormy countenance eased a little. She glanced at me.

"Are you content, Dr. Watson, with the arrangement of John waiting here until Mr. Holmes _returns_?"

I nodded, distracted by her use of my Christian name – which, after a moment's confusion, I realised was the child's name as well.

John Holmes. What an irony.

888

**A/N:** So, do you like? Please leave a review - it takes but a moment and leaves me with a big smile all day!


	3. Chapter Three: Checkmate, John?

**A/N:** Well! Hello again, everyone! First of all, a few responses to my wonderful reviewers:

**Z-SBS:** Blimey. What a long review! Wow. Thankyou very much! And you're right - flames don't make me smile at all, though this review certainly did. I'm not sure what you meant by my update going "wrong", but this site has been playing up a bit lately! LOL, John Holmes is almost as good as John Sherlock - but not quite! And you're right, the two Johns do become something of a pair, with Watson taking the part of his protector - but that is yet to come. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**charles of china:** Hope this sates your curiousity... for the time being! Thanks for reviewing.

**Susicar:** Yes, Holmes is a bit of a cad, isn't he? Many thanks for your review!

**Knife86:** Thanks! Hopefully this update wasn't too slow!

**igbogal:** You've done it again... the last line of your review gave me a bit of an idea for the following chapters! So thankyou - I hope you enjoy chapter three!

**Belka:** Thanks for reviewing! Hopefully you'll still want to read on after this chapter...

**Procyon Marie:** I didn't really think about the dates, but - more on that further down. Thanks for your comments!

**amalcolm1:** Hmm, but did she necessarilly "screw around"? Obviously she did with Holmes... but was it simply a one-night stand? Lol... well, thanks for making me think (its a painful thing to do!), and as far as the age of the boy is concerned I've added a little note below since other people have mentoned it as well. Thanks for your review - I hope this chapter explains (a little) more!

**RL:** Thanks for your review! I'm being a little cruel to Watson at the moment - he's discovered so many crazy things in the past day that I'm surprised he doesn't just give up!

**dumbblonde76:** Thanks for reviewing! Keep reading!

**snicketfan4ever:** Thanks! I hope you like the next chapter.

**N.B: John Holmes' Age**

Quite a few reviewers have commented that John Holmes seems a lot younger than he should, canonically, be. They are quite right. I try to stick to the canon but am not, am definitely not, good with dates. (Then again, ACD wasn't always religious about sticking to them either!) He is supposed to be about thirteen or fourteen, as I had always planned, but due perhaps to his "silent role" in the last chapter he may have seemed much younger. Also, in Holmes' times, I think that children stayed as such for a much longer time, especially if they had been born to rich families. Does that make sense? I hope this clears up any confusion, and apologies if anything in the last chapter misled!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Now read the fic!

**The Adventure of the Detective's Son**

**Chapter Three**

I was a little caught off guard by Miss O'Doherty's callous abandonment of her nephew to my, a stranger's, care. After she had done so I stood looking at the boy in uncomfortable silence for some time before his sharp eyes caught sight of a long-forgotten chess set, high on a shelf above the almanac, and he caught my eye with a wicked grin.

"Shall we play, Dr. Watson?" The question, uttered in full certainty of its owner's victory, could have been from the mouth of my very room-mate had it not been for its childish inflections. I nodded, unable to repress a small smile.

When Holmes finally entered it was to the sight of my being beaten quite convincingly at the game, and for a moment an expression of amusement crossed his features, before being replaced by one of clear and absolute discomfort. He did not apologise for his absence, merely nodded as the boy rose, his youthful face suddenly devoid of any colour. For a moment they both stood, father and son, in silence, their features and their expressions perfect mirrors of each other. I wondered which would break the silence first.

"Good morning," Holmes said softly, looking down at the boy. A flash of puzzlement entered his eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

It seemed to me a curious question, but then I realised that Holmes would not even put it past his old love's sister to leave the boy in the dark as to the reason for his being left with a pair of total strangers. The boy's pained expression, however, left me in no doubt that this was certainly not the case.

"Yes." The boy said. "You... are my father." His grey eyes narrowed. "Do _you_ know who _I_ am?"

Yes, I thought, had there been any doubt before, surely this shattered it. No one but a Holmes would speak with such audacity – or with such a sharp sense for finding one's way to the very heart of a matter.

"I do." Holmes said tonelessly, and he turned away from the child under the somewhat noisy pretext of removing his coat and boots. I could tell, though, from the look of bitter disappointment on the boy's face that he was not for a moment fooled, and that this casual act – for I knew, even if the boy didn't, that an act was all it was – cut him deeper than any words ever could. Perhaps Holmes realised this, for when he turned back it was with something more akin to compassion in his eyes than I had ever thought him capable of. He seemed lost in thought.

"I am sorry." He said at last, a very faint flush appearing on his cheeks. "But your aunt did not tell me your name."

The boy looked quite unable to speak so I, reluctantly, spoke for him.

"John," I said, and the younger, smaller version of Holmes seemed to jerk out of his reverie at the sound of his name. Holmes raised an eyebrow, surprised. He was almost smiling. "His name is John."

Holmes nodded, his eyes glittering slightly. His eyes raked the boy up and down, and I could see him coming to the very same conclusion as I had, only ten times faster.

"John... named for your grandfather, I see. I do not suppose you have any recollection of him, since he died before your birth. He was a good man. I knew him well."

I grasped onto this one piece of information like a drowning man at sea. If Holmes knew his once-lover's father "well" then his courtship must have been much more than a half-hearted, desultory, secret one which resulted in a child thanks wholly to their own weakness to resist temptation. I grasped this morsel, and so did the boy.

"How well?" The boy asked, his eyes as sharp as needles. And then; "Do you have a case on?"

I started, but Holmes did not, and I realised that the boy had seen what I had not; the telegram poking out from Holmes' pocket, the flush in his cheeks, and the muddied state of his boots. He had indeed been on the chase.

"Yes." The elder Holmes said, indicating with a sweep of his hand that his son should take a seat. They both did so, Holmes taking up his pipe and John continuing to survey the room, me and most of all his father with eyes as bright as stars. Standing there in the presence of the two intellects, one sharpened by age and experience, the other still bright with youth and no small amount of natural talent, I felt a chill run up my spine. I realised then what I knew Holmes must already have acknowledged – that the greater intellect was that of the child's, and that, with honing, he could become a young man with skills of detection to rival even Sherlock Holmes.

The silence, and this sudden epiphany, pushed in on all sides for some time until it became unbearable.

"I feel I should leave." I said abruptly when I was sure I could stand no more. Both Holmeses looked up, evidently surprised, and I found myself holding back a sigh. Evidently John, much like his elder, had no difficulty at all in entertaining himself without a single word to another. Sherlock Holmes raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"Very well, Watson. Perhaps I shall bring John up to date on the facts of the case." He quirked an eye at the boy, whose eyes were suddenly bright with anticipation. "Would you like that?"

The poor child almost tripped over his words in his eagerness to reply.

"Very much, Father!"

His utterance of the final word was met with a deafening silence, and a look of complete amazement on Holmes' face. He recovered quickly, however, and nodded curtly to me as I reached for the doorknob, before turning back to the boy.

As I exited, I heard their voices; low, hushed and most of all, excited. I shook my head ruefully. The case would doubtless be solved by midday.

888

**A/N:** I'm sorry that nothing much has happened in this chapter - I hope you all enjoyed in nonetheless. Please tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter Four: In Which a Mystery Begins

**A/N:** Hello all! First of all, a few notes to my reviewers:

**Z-SBS:** Well, thanks to the person who should get reviewer-of-the-year award! Things get a bit more... interesting... in this chapter, though I hope it's now heading in a direction slightly different to what most would expect! By the way, chapter three of 'Running from the Past' was great – I'll try to review it as soon as I can (I had only time to read it very very quickly!). Anyway, ta – enjoy chapter four!

**Procyon Marie:** Lol, ACD was very naughty with dates! I think he felt that the story was more important than the facts it was couched in. Anyway, thanks loads for your review – and I hope you enjoy the rest of my "talking away"!

**RL:** Thanks for your review! I'm afraid, though, that things may now be taking a slightly unexpected turn...

**snicketfan4ever:** Thanks! Here you go – update number four!

**dumbblonde76:** Okay! Here you go – chapter four. I hope you enjoy it!

**Belka:** "An intellectual rival", hmm... well, you shall have to read on! Many thanks for your review.

**Mara O:** Lol! I never thought before to bring Mycroft into it... but that could be very interesting indeed! Anyway, thanks for reviewing – I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Now read chapter four!

**The Case of the Detective's Son**

**Chapter Four**

I returned much later, hesitant to intrude on the first meeting of father and son. And yet I also worried for how Holmes was to cope, alone with a child he did not know and yet was wholly responsible for, yet when I returned I was greeted with happy evidence that my worries were entirely unfounded. Holmes was seated in his chair, pipe in hand, his expression thoughtful and not a sign anywhere of the chaos I had feared following the aftermath of a case – especially one shared with a child."Well Watson," he said as I entered, "I believe I can honestly say that I have never felt such satisfaction at the completion of a case as I have today."

The boy was gone; that I could see. I wondered how much of an education he had received in regards to criminal behaviour in those few hours he had shared with Holmes. I took my seat opposite Holmes and lit my own pipe.

"Did the boy – did John assist you?"

Holmes eyes me languidly.

"He did. He is an intelligent boy; I would wager that by the time he reaches maturity he will possess an intellect to rival even Mycroft's. However," and at this a shadow passed across his face "he is not my son."

I was, I am ashamed to admit, furious. That Holmes could be so blind as not to see the kinship between himself and the boy – and that if he did, that he could be so cruel as to deliberately ignore it! I drew myself up to my full height (which was, admittedly, only effective because Holmes was seated), and fixed Holmes with my coldest glare.

"I have thought you many things, Holmes, but never before would I have called you a fool. But I do now; I say, Holmes, you are a fool of the worst kind, and that your denial of young John as your son is the act of coward and of an unutterable cad." I was quite prepared to go on, to blister Holmes with a thousand insults which had been building up within me ever since Miss O'Doherty had referred to me as his "dog-eyed chronicler", but Holmes held up a weary hand.

"I am sorry, Watson." He said heavily. "I am sure that this is all utterly incomprehensible to you. But believe me when I say that, though he bears some remarkable resemblance to me, he is not the son of Anna-Marie, and there is no other woman who could have borne me a child."

This tired admission – and the implication that he had touched no other woman after the ill-fated Anna-Marie – quieted my anger in a way no amount of analytical reasoning would have done. I lowered myself into my chair and surveyed his features. I had known Holmes for a long time, and whilst he could sometimes fool me when hiding something on a case, when in private conversation he could not lie to me without my knowing it. He was telling the truth – or at least the truth as he believed it to be.

"Very well, Holmes." I said. "But I am afraid, having never met your once-fiancée, that I cannot really say whether or not John is her child."

Holmes stared at me in shock, and I felt a brief flush of triumph. It was soon quashed, however, by the hard, disapproving expression which settled over my friend's face as he responded.

"I see that you have added guessing to your list of annoying habits, Watson. A lucky guess, perhaps, but a guess nonetheless. Tell me, do you intend to publish the details of this sordid little affair?"

I stood up abruptly, bitterly disappointed. I had been looking forward to the moment when I could reveal the deductions which had led me to that correct result – that Holmes had been engaged to Anna-Marie – and yet now I found myself in the position of having insulted, and been insulted by, a man I respected above all others. It was only with the terrible feelings of loss after Reichenbach in mind that I managed to withhold myself from responding to his gibe.

"I am going for a walk, Holmes. I will be back in an hour, by which time I expect you to be in a somewhat more sensible frame of mind in regards to this problem."

And so, for the third time in two days, I found myself walking the streets of London alone, musing upon the "very pretty little problem" which Sherlock Holmes, and by default I, had recently become a part of.

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I have often removed myself from our rooms when my friend was on a case and had need of privacy, but never before had the actions I performed whilst on such a loose limb been anything involved with the case he was working on. During my absence then, however, during the strange affair of the detective's son, I – still somewhat stung by my friend's words and desperately curious to identify the source of his doubts – did something that, had I been Sherlock Holmes, I would probably never have done. I hailed a cab Scotland Yard and, asking for Lestrade, barrelled into the inspector's office.

Lestrade looked up in alarm, and blinked in surprise when he saw I was alone.

"Dr. Watson." He said cordially, nodding his head in greeting. "Where is Mr Holmes? Is he in trouble? On a case?"

I paused for a moment for breath.

"Holmes is quite fine, Inspector, but I need your help with something. A... case of my own, shall we say."

Lestrade looked at me carefully for a long moment before smiling slowly and shaking his head.

"So the chronicler has decided to break out on his own, Doctor? Well, well... what can I do for you? I suppose we owe you a little for not allowing too many of Mr Holmes' comments on the fallibility of the police force into your pamphlets!"

I hesitated, thinking once again that Holmes would call this madness. But then I saw the expectant – almost impressed – expression on Lestrade's face, and pressed on with renewed confidence.

"I need to find someone." I said. "A woman named O'Doherty."

Lestrade frowned at me.

"Why should expect us to know where she is?"

Once again, I hesitated. I knew my own chain of reasoning, but I was not Holmes, and was quite unable to word it in a manner even approaching his ease.

"She is the sister of a late friend of his. I believe their father was somewhat rich, and I did not think it an unfair deduction to say that most of the acquaintances of Holmes have been made through his detection. I thought that the O'Dohertys as a family may have been involved in some problem of Holmes', or even of the Yard's."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"The implication being that most of Mr Holmes' problems are those too hard for the Yard, eh, Dr. Watson?"

I said nothing. After all, Lestrade did not need my agreement to know that his statement was true. He sighed, and nodded, his mouth tight with reluctance. He moved towards the door.

"Wait here." He ordered me. "I'll go have a look at the files. It'll be no short job, mind, trawling through every 'O' in the filing cabinet, so set in for a long wait, Dr. Watson."

I waited, and one hour later I had on my shirt-cuff the London address of the extremely rich and extremely aristocratic O'Dohertys.

The case which Holmes solved for the O'Doherty patriarch was one of missing silver – ludicrously simple, as Holmes might have said, but by the looks of it an intriguing case nonetheless. I made a note to ask Holmes to describe it to me the next time I saw him, but events soon conspired to push such small and petty thoughts from my mind.

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**A/N:** Well, that's all for now – chapter five will be coming as soon as possible! Please leave a review!


	5. Chapter Five: Of the Chase, Again

**A/N:** Hello all! A few little responses to my reviewers:

**Procyon Marie:** Lol, poor old Watson has been having a tough time of it lately, hasn't he! I'm trying to give him a chance to do his own detecting here! Thanks for your review; I hope this chapter satisfies!

**snicketfan4ever:** I'm afraid that I'm a serial cliffy-writer, as you will find out at the end of this chapter. Sorry! (And thanks for the review!)

**RL:** Mycrosofts! Interesting nickname, lol... maybe Bill Gates got the name for his computer software from the canon! Sorry... anyway, thanks for reviewing – but I'm afraid that things aren't going to get much clearer...

**igbogal:** Oh wow, thankyou for such a lovely review! Lol, 'Ms. O'Doherty the ice-queen' is a good term – do you mind if I maybe filch it for use later on? Anyway, hope you enjoy chapter five!

**Z-SBS:** Well, I rarely know what's going on in my head! At least not in regards to fics. I tend to wing it. Dreadful habit! Thanks for reviewing – hope you enjoy this offering!

**dumbblonde76:** Thanks! Enjoy chapter five!

**Susicar:** Yes, I'm all for mystery! Thanks for your reviews – I hope chapter five meets your approval!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**The Case of the Detective's Son**

**Chapter Five**

It was dark by the time I reached Mayfair Way, the London address of the wealthy O'Doherty's, and the rattling of the few cabs still active echoed like shots in the brittle night. I was infinitely glad, then, when the O'Doherty's door-keeper welcomed me into the brightly lit hall, even if it meant that in the reception room I would once again come face to face with the formidable Miss O'Doherty.

She greeted me with a cold stare and haughty demeanour which said quite clearly that she in no way welcomed my presence at this late hour of the evening.

"Dr. Watson." She said, placing an emphasis on the title. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" The words, though formal, were dripping with scorn and her expression one of icy defensiveness. The way she stood – her shoulders pulled back, her chin jutting out as though preparing for a battle – made me think that perhaps, ridiculous though it seemed, she feared me. It was only later that I discovered why.

"I -" I stopped, and she frowned. It was only then that I realised, despite my grand hopes of solving the mystery, that I had absolutely no idea what to say to the woman. Where did the leading link lie in this tangle skein? I had hoped to see the boy, to assess once again what I thought I was sure of – that he was the son, the flesh and blood, of my friend Sherlock Holmes. But I would not have dreamed to dare utter such a thing to the icy Miss O'Doherty. "I wished to speak to John." I said cautiously. "I had hoped to ask him a few questions."

"Why?" The question, sharp and faintly accusing, came like a bullet. I did not waver, but drew myself up to my full height, a thing I could rarely take advantage when Holmes was in the room.

"Because Mr. Holmes asked me to. And because, as Holmes' closest friend, I feel honour-bound to ensure the welfare and safety of his only child." All blatant lies; and Holmes said I was incapable of dissimulation!

"You think he is being mistreated?" I had expected her tone to be angry, but far from it – Miss O'Doherty sounded quite relieved. I noted this quietly, little realising at the time just how damning a piece of evidence she had provided me with.

"You misinterpret me." I said slowly. "I merely wish to speak to the boy. If he does not wish to speak to me – well, that is another matter. However, I -"

"Aunt Celise?" A youthful, slightly bleary voice, interrupted me. We both turned to see young John Holmes, looking impossibly young with his hair sticking up in all directions and eyes unfocussed from sleep. He wore an oddly familiar mouse-coloured dressing gown. He frowned as he caught sight of me, looking more than ever like Sherlock Holmes. "Dr. Watson." The statement was cool, calm, and I knew that in a single glance he had probably deduced where I had come from, what I had been doing for the past three hours, and why I was standing in the middle of his living room. One could almost read in his eyes the thought that such omniscience was tiring.

"This gentleman wishes to speak to you, John." Celise O'Doherty said coolly, not even deigning to glance at me. "You may show him to your room. I am busy here." It was only then that I noticed a collection of papers lying in a haphazard fashion on the desk some feet to my right, and I cursed myself for not having done so earlier. I had no time now, as I followed John Holmes' retreating back up the stairs, to subtly examine their contents.

"This is my room." He said, pushing open a small wooden door set away from the stairs. The room was tiny – even the boy had to stoop to enter – but perfectly organised, and possessed one small window which looked out onto the clear London night. I could well imagine the boy standing by that window, gazing out onto the myriad of civilization much as his father did from the window of Baker Street. At that point I put absolutely no weight whatsoever on Holmes' claim that John was not his son – I thought only that any fool had to glance at the pair to say that they were undoubtedly father and son. "Please sit down, Dr. Watson."

I sat down, thinking with some bemusement that he sounded strangely like Holmes when welcoming a new client to an interview. I noticed, too, that the chair was situated perfectly so that when the lamp was on, it would shine into my face and leave his face obscured. His only shelf contained an almanac, a copy of the Holy Writ, and a dozen copies of _The Strand_ magazine. Yet another copy lay open on his bed – the illustrations of which I recognised as belonging to the essay I entitled "The Final Problem". I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this boy who had until that day known his father only as a character in my own insignificant writings.

"I think your stories are very good." He said suddenly, his words rushing out in disconcertion as he saw me looking. "I think – I think you got him right, you know."

Neither of us needed to say who "him" was. There was only one him to which either of us would refer, in the tiny room belonging to the detective's son.

"Thankyou." I said gently. For all his intelligence, he was but a child – and I have never seen a child look so terribly lost as that boy did as he sat down facing me that night.

"I've read them all." He said quietly. "I think – I think that you got his methods right, as well. I've learned a lot from them." He glanced up quickly, looked abashed. "My aunt didn't want me to – she said that... that it was a waste. That it would upset people if I could tell things about them without asking first." The confident, bright boy of the morning was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he, like Holmes, needed a superior or equal intellect to awaken the spirit in him – a challenge for him to rise to. I was far from equal in intelligence, and presented no challenge, so the boy could quite honestly be a boy. I thought, then, that above all else he was in desperate need of a father.

"It is no waste." I said. "After all, your father has made his living and his fame from it."

The boy looked at me, his eyes widening.

"I – he's not -" He started, but a severe exclamation from the doorway cut him off in his tracks.

"John!" It was Miss O'Doherty, and she was glaring at the boy with fire in her eyes. We in the room both rose, and the boy's cheeks were flushed with anger and, I thought, fear. She turned to me and smiled charmingly. The impression was almost akin to a viper baring its fangs. "My apologies, Dr. Watson. It is very late, and John needs to sleep. I think you should go."

I left, and when I returned to Baker Street I found Sherlock Holmes waiting for me, a crumpled telegram in his hand and heady fever of the chase shining in his eyes and warming his cheeks.

"Come, Watson," he said, "our prey has revealed itself. The game is afoot!"

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**A/N:** A cliff-hanger? Moi? Hehe... please review!


	6. Chapter Six: In Which an Apology is Made

**A/N:** Chapter six, everyone! At last! Sorry it took so long. But here it is – enjoy!

**Many thanks** to all who have reviewed so far – this one's for you.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**The Adventure of the Detective's Son**

**Chapter Six**

I felt suddenly very tired. How completely Holmes' sharp, clinical energy contrasted with my emotional exhaustion! Why should a case in which a boy claiming to be his son was the chief player have such a drastic effect upon myself?

"Holmes," I said wearily, "I am sure that, whatever happens, you will be more than capable of dealing with it on your own."

Sherlock Holmes stepped back, the light of the chase fading from his eyes to be replaced with the cold, calculating expression which I found always crossed his face when he was faced with what he called a particularly "pretty problem". He turned away and settled slowly into his chair, indicating that I should do the same.

"You have been to see John." Holmes stated. I nodded, but did not elaborate. I found that now it came to it, there was no pleasure in the thought of revealing to Holmes my fine, logical deductions. Holmes sighed, and leant forward, his fingers steepled and brow crinkling in thought. Eventually, he spoke. "I think it is time, Watson, that I tell you all I know in regards to this affair. I fear I have been less than considerate towards you these past few days."

Holmes' words, closer to an apology than I could ever have hoped for, mollified me a little. I nodded, and he continued.

"The facts of the case are thus," he said, spreading his hands out before him in the style of the people's orator, "and I shall lay them before you as simply and as candidly as I can. Our case begins some sixteen years ago, when I made the somewhat foolish mistake of allowing that most dangerous of distractions into my life – love. And yes, Watson," he said, as I started in surprise, "I was capable of love, once. When I met Anna-Marie I had yet to acknowledge its damning effect on my own deductive capabilities. By the time that I realised just how irrational I had become in my association with her, it seemed to me too late to turn back, is it were. But back out I did, though it caused me immeasurable pain and, I am sure, Anna-Marie and her family immeasurable heartache. I fear that it is for this which I am now, through the machinations of Anna's sister, Celise, being punished."

He revealed this in the most mechanical of fashions, and spoke of his ruined love affair as I would a patient's ill or overwrought condition. The only emotion I read on his ever-stoic face was one of slight disgust, as though he could not quite believe that his younger self had once committed the heinous crime of falling in love. I felt a rush of sympathy now for Anna-Marie, Holmes' beau. An unfortunate woman indeed, to set her heart upon one as cold as he!

"Cold, perhaps, Watson, but not uncaring." Holmes murmured, reading, as he often did, my innermost thoughts with the greatest of ease. At the sight of my bemused expression he smiled, and said simply; "You glanced at me, and seemed to shiver. Hence the conclusion that I am, as you have said many times before, an essentially cold and calculating being."

I nodded, then rose from my seat. Holmes glanced up at me in surprise.

"I have heard enough, Holmes. You can explain all at the conclusion of the case. But now, I believe, time is of the essence. Am I right?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock Holmes' impassive mouth, and with a sudden energy he rose and reached for his coat.

"Come then, my dear Watson," he said, his eyes alive with delight, "let us smoke our prey from their hiding place."

I rose too, unable to repress my own sudden thrill of excitement. It is, after all, incredibly difficult to remain nonchalant in the face of such enthusiasm that Sherlock Holmes is at times capable of conjuring up within himself.

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We managed to catch a hansom, even at that late hour, and as it rattled along the streets of London Holmes turned to me with a wry smile and held out to me a much-thumbed envelope.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of this? I received it soon after you had left this evening, and it is the reason why two middle-aged gentlemen such as ourselves are hurrying through London city at such a late stage of the day. Can you deduce anything from it? You know my methods." He did not add that I should apply them, but I heard the words despite his silence as I turned my attention to the mottled paper.

"The handwriting is that of a man, and an ill-learned one at that," I hazarded, squinting at the scrawled address in the dim light. Holmes harrumphed, but said nothing. I took this as approval, and continued, greatly encouraged. "The paper is – cheap, I would say. There appears to be smudge, perhaps of dirt on the top left-hand corner. This, along with the handwriting, leads me to believe that the envelope was addressed and posted by someone of the labouring class."

I glanced up at Holmes to see how he was receiving my deductions, but his face was deep in the shadows and his expression inscrutable. He nodded silently, and I opened the envelope. I looked down at the unfolded message.

"Ah." I said. The message was made up of words cut from a newspaper, but not just any; I recognised the font and paper of _The Strand_ magazine. And not just that; the message included the name "John Holmes"; two names which could only have been taken together from one of my narratives in _The Strand_ – the first of my name and the last of Holmes'. The message ran thus;

We Have the child. **John** Holmes. he is To be in the House at 11 night. no Effort will save him apart From your appearance and Payment. £200 is required.

I felt Holmes stir, and I looked up to find him leaning forward with a gentle smile upon his lips.

"Do you think, Watson," he asked me, "that a man of the working class would have access to such a magazine as the Strand? And do you think any but a woman would have the cunning to try and pretend to be such – or if any but _that_ woman would have the audacity to use the very stories which you write about _me_ to compose her message – and before that to use them to persuade her son, her pawn, to take part in her plot if given the opportunity to meet me?"

I frowned. The places were beginning to fall into place – slower, perhaps, than in the mind of my companion, but into place nonetheless. So "Aunt Celise" was the boy's mother... and his father, presumably, either a party to the fraud or nowhere to be seen. Again, I thought, poor child.

"I'm not sure I understand." I said helplessly. "Why should he want to -"

Holmes cut me off sharply.

"Because, if I am correct in my deductions, he has been without a father for the entirety of his life. A boy like that – a brilliant boy, for he is brilliant, Watson – cannot operate without something or someone to aspire to. He must have heard stories about me from his Aunt Anna-Marie. I mean -" Sherlock Holmes suddenly stopped, his expression vaguely, and thus more than I had ever before seen, confused.

"I know, Holmes." I said eventually. "You hope that she remembered you and spoke of you."

Holmes jerked up, surprised, and I understood at last how I must have looked to him each and every time he revealed to me a scrap of information which seemed miraculous. This understanding, however, served only to increase my unease. Whatever was to happen, it would seem that for once, Holmes did not hold the upper hand against our opponent.

The fact that the advantage was on the side of such an icy woman as the queenly Miss O'Doherty did little to comfort me, either.

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**A/N:** Please read and review... and I will try to update sooner with the next chapter than I did with this one!


	7. Chapter Seven: In Which the Dead, Live

**A/N:** Happy New Year Everyone! Greetings to all, and my sincerest apologies for taking... such... a long... time... over this chapter. If it is any consolation at all, it is an especially long one!

I know I usually write responses to my reviewers but... the sooner I post this the sooner you can read it! Many, many thanks to you all, of course. I am very sorry for leaving you all in suspense, and look - ! You wonderful lot have given me _fifty-seven_ reviews! Thankyou – hope you enjoy this chapter – only one more after this to come, but... I have more up my sleeve!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Holmes, but I have put him through a great deal of turmoil through the course of this story. Ah, the wonders of fanfiction...

**The Adventure of the Detective's Son**

**Chapter Seven**

We arrived at the "house" – an old abandoned warehouse used by beggars for shelter – just as the sky was beginning to lighten above us. The place by the river was deserted, save for a stray dog and a drunken, cooing harlot. The place was shadowy, and with the dark, brooding Thames lapping at the edge of the embankment, seemed to me the perfect place to carry out a crime. Holmes must have thought this as well, for as we alighted he murmured in my ear;

"A suspicious place, is it not, Watson?"

I could do aught but nod in response; his hushed tone and alert, glittering eyes gave the clear message that I was to be silent and on my guard. I fingered my old revolver in my pocket, glad for its familiar weight. I have never been keen on running into a battle, be it with the army or indeed with Holmes, unarmed.

The horses reined to the carriage suddenly neighed and stamped their feet and Holmes, with a sharp nod and flick of his fingers, ordered the driver away. The hansom rattled once more down the deserted street, but this time its cab was empty of passengers. Had it not been for the fact that I knew Holmes was beside me, ever-stern and ever-ready, I would have quailed then at that dark and dismal night.

Holmes tugged at my sleeve, and with another nod indicated that we should move from our painfully visible position. I followed him through a doorway from which the door had been torn at the hinges, and into a dank, dark hallway with no light and little air. Holmes struck a match, and with a dry rasping sound the corridor was filled with the red, flickering light of the fragile flame.

There was a staircase leading upwards at the furthest end of the corridor, and as we stood in silence for a moment I distinctly heard the tread of a foot and the gentle vibration of a voice in whisper from the floor above. I glanced at Holmes, and from his intent expression I was sure that he, too, had heard what I had. He leant towards me, his face taut but his eyes alight with a flame so much brighter than that of the candle.

"The voice is that of a woman's, Watson."

Celise O'Doherty, it would seem. I exchanged a glance with Holmes, and I slowly fingered the cold metal of the pistol in my pocket. The _click_ of the safety catch seemed almost deafening, and I was struck with a sudden, strange sensation as I realised that I was, to all intents and purposes, preparing to defend myself against a _woman_. The thought would have caused me more than a little consternation had I not been entirely sure than Celise O'Doherty was, quite contrary to my own expectations of her sex, as dangerous and cunning as any man – even Sherlock Holmes himself.

Holmes slipped past me, and with my pistol clasped in my hand I followed him up that dark, dreary stair.

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The sight which greeted us was an extraordinary one, but it was Holmes' reaction to it which made the greatest impression on my mind that night. The room was dark, save for a lamp which flickered in the centre, barely revealing the dusty walls and corners of the dingy spot. There were four people in the room, but only three were at first apparent to me – the figures of Celise O'Doherty, the boy John, and a tall, cruel-faced man who towered over them both. The man was grasping both of John's shoulders, and the boy's expression was one of utmost disgust and fear.

The fourth occupant of the room became apparent to me when it gave a sharp cry, and Holmes' own features contorted with shock, anger, and an emotion so strong I might almost have called love, had I not know his careful heart better.

"Sherlock!" It was the voice of a woman – a woman bound and dirty, locks of what must once have been golden hair hanging down across her face in matted clumps. I felt a sudden rush of pity for her limp figure, but it was soon drowned by my utter shock as Holmes hoarsely spoke the words;

"Anna-Marie." But then, as these words, this name I thought so terribly dear to him, fell from his lips his expression hardened, and he turned towards Celise O'Doherty with all the calm precision of a surgeon before an operation on a patient he knew little about, and did not look back towards the pathetic, bound woman for quite some time.

"You told me she was dead." He stated coolly, and though the woman on the floor began to speak, he did not look at her.

"She is a liar, Sherlock, please -"

"Quiet her, for heaven's sake, Jude." She snapped, and the tall, burly man acquiesced with all the obedience of a timid pup. He crossed over towards Anna-Maria and, though cold pleasure was in his eyes as he bound the struggling woman's mouth, he did not strike her, nor tie the gag any tighter than was necessary. Holmes watched him as well, but he still did not allow his eyes to rest on the face of the woman he had, I thought, loved.

"I am glad," said he, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "that you still retain enough _wisdom_ not to mistreat a helpless woman such as the one you so considerately gagged." He turned his gaze to Celise O'Doherty. "Tell me, is this gentleman your husband, or simply your under trodden employee?"

The woman smirked and ran an idle hand through the raven-black locks of her hair.

"You mean the Great Detective cannot tell?"

Now it was Holmes' turn to sneer, and a colder expression I have never seen on my friend's face. It shook me to the very core and, I am certain, drained a little of the colour from O'Doherty's callous and beautiful face.

"Of course I can tell, my dear, deluded woman. I merely doubted that there would be any difference in your life between a husband and an employee. After all, I am sure that given incentive enough they would do for you the same things."

These cold, sharp words struck home, and both I and Miss O'Doherty reeled – I at the unexpected venom I saw in Holmes' eyes, and she at the cold and calculated insult. But then Holmes glanced at me with triumph in his face, and I realised that, as with anything he did, his words had been planned and deployed for a specific purpose – in this case, to throw Miss O'Doherty off the true scent of his plans. He could carry on such verbal parry all night – or at least until he managed to raise the alarm and bring the police to the dark cave of a room in which we were trapped. I decided, then, to take my own action, and began to make for the door. Miss O'Doherty was, I thought, sufficiently distracted by my friend's calm yet icy repartee. I thought this up until the moment that a bullet embedded itself in the wall just above my left shoulder, and I turned to see Celise O'Doherty with a small, delicate pistol held in her thin, delicate fingers. Holmes, I noted, had frozen.

"I would step no farther, Dr Watson, if I in your position." Her voice was light and cultured, but there was a danger in her eyes. "I would hate to cause Mr Holmes the grief which your death would invariably bring about."

I realised then what a fool I had been. There were only two things which, I imagined, could happen next. One would be the noisy retort of the gun and the end of my journey in the mortal world, or Holmes would do – _something_, and the whole affair would be over. However, something happened next which I did not expect, and a voice which was not Holmes', but sounded very much like his, spoke up.

"You will not shoot him." It was John, now standing taller and more like a man than I had thought possible of him. He may not, I mused, be Holmes' son, but I was certain in that moment that John possessed something of that same indomitable spirit as inhabited Sherlock Holmes' heart. The woman's face contorted with bitterness.

"And what, _dear_ child, makes you say that?" The boy did not answer straight away, but glanced slowly, meeting the gaze of both myself and Sherlock Holmes. He straightened, as though in anticipation of a pronouncement.

"Because I know you, Mother, and I know that though you would wish it you do not have the instinct of a murderer within you." His voice was calm, with not a single ounce of emphasis more on one word than on any other, but he achieved his desired result. The woman he called "Mother" stiffened and lowered her aim, I quickly moved out of danger, the burly gentleman hissed in anger and Holmes let out a low sigh of understanding.

"Of course," he murmured, "not Anna." As he spoke, the tall, silent man moved towards the boy, his face contorted with anger.

"Stupid boy." He growled, grabbing John O Doherty's arm, and moved to strike the boy, but before he could he found a revolver, courtesy of Holmes, pointed at his temples.

"I dislike overly violent displays of power," Holmes said calmly, his finger inert upon the trigger, "but if you harm the boy I fear I will have to indulge in one."

I glanced towards him, and noted that his eyes were slightly distant and his mouth taut, as though he were straining for a sound. After a moment, I heard it too – the distant yells of our good friends from Scotland Yard. Our two criminals, however, wrapped in their own drama, did not pay the approaching danger any heed.

"Don't you touch him, Jude!" Celise O'Doherty's voice was high and, though her expression betrayed no concern save anger, her voice belied her sudden fear for her son's sake. It would seem that even a woman as cold as she could not repress her natural motherly instincts.

"Do not worry, mother." John was still filling the role which I had, until a few hours ago, considered to be his true one – that of Sherlock Holmes' son, filling quite easily the expectations of his father's famous name, and did not flinch as the face of the man holding him contorted with rage. With the lightest of movements, he pressed against his captor's grasp and then stepped easily away. The surly man was now quite alone, the cold metal of my friend's gun digging into his forehead. Sherlock Holmes nodded in satisfaction and stepped back, at which point the police fell upon the building and locked both Miss Celise O'Doherty and her male accomplice in cuffs and led them both, protesting loudly, away. Holmes and I were left, then, with one begrimed and bound young woman, and one young boy who had in one day been bereft of both mother and hope of a father. Lestrade, who had accompanied his men, hung back.

"The charges, Holmes? I heard no mention of this case." His sharp, pinched face was tight with curiosity and indignance. Holmes frowned slightly.

"It was not a criminal case, Lestrade. At least not until Miss Celise O'Doherty drew a gun and threatened Watson, and her accomplice raised his hand to a child." He paused, and glanced at John. "The gentleman was, I presume, her husband?"

The boy nodded, his expression guarded.

"Yes. He belongs to a – a group operating in the crime circuits. He agreed to help mother on the condition that she married him, giving him legal and unquestionable access to her inheritance and the respect accorded by her reputation." The boy faltered for a moment. "I – believe there may have been some... love, between them." His chin went up, and he stared Lestrade in the eye. "He was not my father."

Lestrade held the boy's gaze for a moment before glancing at Holmes. His expression was unreadable.

"You know, Mr Holmes, no disrespect intended, but the boy – he does bear a certain -" Lestrade's suggestion, however, was cut off by a low moan from the corner of the room, and I realised with a start that we had all but forgotten the presence and discomfort of the woman Holmes had once courted. Holmes gave a start, and strode quickly to her side, untying the bonds with unprecedented gentleness. He untied her gag last and helped her sit up, and as he did so the maltreated woman let out a sob.

"Sherlock – what am I to do?" Speaking thus, she proceeded to place her arms around him and lean her head against his chest. I was tempted to laugh at my friend's suddenly stiff posture and expression of abject surprise, but as it was I settled for a small smile. The woman hung on to him like a drowning man to a life buoy, and perhaps Holmes sensed this, for while he grimaced at Lestrade, he did not push her away. Lestrade caught my eye and smirked slightly, but I did not respond. Sherlock Holmes has surprised me many times during our long association, but never more so than when he proceeded to return the lady's embrace, and hold her there awkwardly until her breathing slowed and her expression calmed. I do not know what it cost his great heart to have so near to him the only woman who had ever stirred within him anything approaching love.

After a long moment, he slowly extricated himself from Anna-Maria O'Doherty's grasp and stood up, holding his arm out stiffly for the lady to lean on. She did so gratefully, but as soon as they had taken the few short steps to the door Holmes handed her to me. As he stepped away he looked intensely relieved, and I was aware that both Lestrade and the boy John were watching carefully. Lestrade in particular looked agog. I am quite sure that until that moment he thought Holmes only possessed three different emotional states – anger at a criminal or the slowness of the police force to catch a criminal, ecstasy at a chase, and boredom at a lack of crime. To see him so obviously affected by a case was beyond the _official_ detective's understanding.

"Mr Holmes, I must ask -" Lestrade began to speak, but was cut off by a curt interruption from my friend.

"Later, my dear Lestrade, later," said he, his expression sombre. "There is more to tell, but not – not yet."

There was, indeed, more to tell – a great deal more.

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**A/N:** My apologies if the writing or the characters seem un-canonical; I have been reading too many Mary Russell books lately and have had my first introduction to Jeremy Brett (cough), so my grasp of ACD's Holmes may be a bit... off. Anyway, please tell me what you think!


	8. Chapter Eight: A Uncanny Resemblance

**A/N:** Okay, I am a _very bad_ person to have not updated this for so long... all I can say is I am very sorry (I've been dabbling in other fandoms and rather abandoned poor old Holmes), and I hope that this chapter and those to follow make up for my tardiness in updating.

**Disclaimer:** All previous disclaimers apply, and I hope Sir ACD is not spinning in his grave too much at my antics with his wonderful characters!

**The Adventure of the Detective's Son**

**Chapter Eight**

It was well into the early hours of the morning when we at last returned to Baker Street, and a curious, exhausted group we must have seemed. Holmes, of course, was still keen and bright-eyed from the thrill of the capture, but both the woman and the child were evidently struggling even to climb the stairs. I grasped John's arm, and, with a pointed look, incited Holmes to do the same for the woman. He did so, and I am sure I was not the only one of the two of us to notice how she leaned gratefully into him – a little more than was necessary, perhaps. When we reached the living room Holmes wasted no time in gently but firmly relieving his burden into a chair.

"Watson," he said, striding over to the shelves, "serve out the brandy, will you; I feel we all need it."

As he impatiently flicked through the years'-worth of notes I made for the mantle, but paused at the sight of the empty decanter. I was not entirely sure if Holmes would see the irony in the fact that it had been the start of this very case which had incited such a gluttonous act as finishing in one night a bottle which had been rationed over three years.

"I am afraid, Holmes, that there is none left." I glanced at John, who had quite calmly taken Holmes' usual chair by the fireplace, and coughed. "We ah – finished it when you received your... surprising piece of news."

Much to my surprise, Sherlock Holmes let out a short, bark-like laugh.

"Ha! A piece of news which proved to be false, eh, Watson?" He was in a peculiar mood, but at least I now knew the reason for it. The sparkle in his eyes was doubtless down to the sudden relief of responsibility now he was sure that John was not his son and, in all honesty, this attitude both surprised and appalled me. I had thought my friend a less fickle man than that.

"Holmes!" I admonished, but said no more with both the woman and the boy looking on in bemusement. Holmes sent me a glance then, a curious, confused glance, and I felt at once that I had misjudged him. There was no time, however, for any apology, for at that moment Mrs Hudson entered the room, a tray in her hands and a bottle of brandy with four glasses upon the tray. She smiled sympathetically at John and raised an eyebrow at his aunt. She turned to Holmes, as ever too much the discreet landlady to comment on his unusual choice in house-guests.

"I thought you might be needing this, sir," said she, handing him the tray. Holmes nodded gracefully.

"You are, as ever, the very prime example of a fine housekeeper, Mrs Hudson," he said gaily, and both I and Mrs Hudson shared a concerned glance. Holmes was acting peculiarly out of character. If this was the effect that a woman to whom he was attracted had on him, I could well understand why he chose never to fall in love again. Mrs Hudson hastily left the room, and I handed a glass of brandy first to the woman, and then to John. He looked dubiously at the glass and looked up at Anna-Marie. She smiled.

"Yes, John." She said, and as he took a grateful sip of the warming liquid she turned to Holmes, her posture and expression formal. "Now, Sherlock, what do we do?"

Holmes looked intensely uncomfortable, and I realised with a slow, dawning shock that Holmes' jovial façade had been just that – a mask to hide his true uneasiness at being so close once again to his past fiancée. He inclined his head slightly.

"We arrange a report to Lestrade and then await the trial and conviction of both your sister and her somewhat thuggish husband." He said. Anna-Marie's lovely face contorted with distress, I presume at Holmes' cool and emotionless tone.

"And I? And John? Are we to live as though nothing has happened?"

Holmes started at her question. He looked at her calmly.

"Am I to act as though something has?" He asked, at which both Anna-Marie and the boy looked shocked. I was intensely disturbed by Holmes' callous attitude, for I knew that despite any pretence he did care for both the woman and the boy now in her charge.

"I say, Holmes!" I exclaimed, and Holmes held up a hand. He looked almost as weary as I had felt what seemed those many hours ago, when I had been on the brink of giving up, so thick was the fog of mystery. The mystery had dispersed, but the emotions it had aroused were still raw and fresh in my memory.

"My apologies, Watson," he said, his gaze fixed and distant upon the slowly crackling fire. "And the same to you, John. I cannot think how it must have been for you, to be forced into this deception – you were forced, were you not?"

John's composure, exhausted as he was, was commendable. Perhaps the brandy gave him strength.

"I would not enter such deception willingly." He said coolly, and I was struck anew by the strange similarity between the two. What things under heaven and earth - ? "Mother sought to seek revenge and money, for several things. Your abandonment of her sister, my aunt. And the shock this caused my grandfather, and the poverty which the family then fell into. But that was not your fault – mother dabbled in crime far too much, fraud and the like. Also," he looked swiftly at his aunt, "I feel perhaps mother was also jealous of Aunt Anna, and so chose to punish you both this way. Finally, her husband, my – stepfather," (at this his expression and tone became filled with a deep and revolted contempt) "had suffered through the loss of several good deals in the underworld when you took Professor Moriarty out of the game at Reichenbach Falls." He quietened. "Yes, I was forced. I shall not tell you how."

Holmes nodded. He seemed on the verge of asking another question when Anna-Marie burst out;

"Let him be, for God's sake! It terrifies me when you are like this, Sherlock Holmes – so inhuman and cold!"

Holmes stilled, then slowly turned his gaze to her. His eyes, though distant, were not entirely unkind.

"Anna," he said at last, shaking his head, "I fear I can never be the human being that you desire of me. You know that I -"

"Fear _disruption_ and _untidiness_ above all else, I know!" The woman exclaimed bitterly. "And yet you are so _talented_ at placing your emotions as separate from your cases, at disconnecting, this I know too! So why is that you cannot allow yourself the privilege of loving another?"

Holmes said nothing, merely rose and crossed over to the window, the brandy glass still in his hand. As I watched, he coolly raised the glass to his lips and took a long draught, emptying the generous tumbler-full. Anna-Marie seemed on the verge of saying more, but John gently laid a hand on her arm and said;

"Hush, Aunt. I feel that we are all a little stretched tonight; neither of you will benefit from having this conversation _today_." Just like Holmes, the boy knew well the benefit of layering meaning beneath meaning in his words, and Anna-Marie quieted at his calm tone.

"You are in intelligent boy, John." Said Holmes, still gazing out at the miasma of the street below. I wondered at his barely even tone; never had I seen my companion so very taut with emotion as he was now. He turned, and I could see that his jaw was stiffer and his eyes brighter than ever they had been on the chase. "I shall provide for your education, and ensure that you suffer no fall-out from your mother's crimes."

John, however, rose in apparent anger at this announcement.

"You need not do that, Mr Holmes." He said, his tone a little sharp, and once more I was awed by the grey eyes which flashed with righteous anger, as I had seen Holmes' flash many a time upon criminals who crossed his path. "As I see it there is no relationship between us, be it of blood or otherwise. Therefore there is no need for you to provide for me in any way."

Holmes said nothing, though I could see in his eyes the slight spark that accompanied an idea begun in the depths of his great mind. Anna-Marie rose, too, and shook her head wearily.

"I am sorry, Sherlock – I should not have spoken as I did. As John says, there is no relationship between us."

Holmes nodded curtly, though I, from many years experience in reading his moods and his thoughts, fancied that somewhere within him a battle was taking place – a battle between the logic he had protected for so long and the re-awakened emotions which Anna-Marie had surely stirred in him. She was a curious woman, no doubt – she spoke to Holmes as an equal or as a colleague, not as a woman or as a victim of a crime.

"Allow me to show you out," I said hastily, as Holmes' eyes acquired a distant look which I knew meant he would speak no more. As I led the pair down the stairs, I laid a hand on Anna-Marie's arm and said gently;

"Do not give up hope, my dear. I shall speak to him."

She looked at me with a new hope in her eyes.

"You shall?" She asked. I nodded, and then glanced at John. He was still a mystery – the son who was not to be, and yet looked so much like the man he had for a time called "father" – and yet I felt I understood a little his reaction to Holmes' offer. For but a time, he had been the son of man he could look up to and respect. Now he was, to all intents and purposes, an orphan, and the make-believe had faded in the light of day.

"Farewell, John. I shall see you again, I hope."

John nodded, and then hailed a cab for his aunt. They rattled away into the night, and I watched them with the satisfaction that, perhaps, Holmes might settle down and marry after all. His reaction to Anna-Marie, strained though it was, had not left me without hope.

I should have known, by then, that hope was a strange and fickle ally, and that she would have many more twists and falls for us before the end.

888

**A/N:** No, the end is not quite in sight; I was planning to tie it up here but I have recently discovered new... possibilities. I have also realised that I have no idea how to explain most of the plot-lines which are currently flying loose, so I need to sleep on it . I hope you've all enjoyed this chapter – please tell me what you think!


	9. Chapter Nine: In Which a Mystery Deepens

**A/N:** Yep, I'm a shirker. Ten weeks holiday and I still don't manage to get this finished as I intended. But, never fear - ! The end is nigh. What follows is a very short chapter, which will hopefully whet your appetite for the next, and final, chapter. Please tell me what you think! Thankyou, again, to all those who have reviewed - it may not seem like it, but your words of encouragement really do give me reason to continue!

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own anything.

**Chapter Nine**

The next morning, after eating in a silence heavy with my disapproval of Holmes' attitude the previous night and his own resistance of it, we were disturbed by a sharp harrowing on the door which preceded the hassled entrance of Inspector Lestrade. Holes glanced at him blithely with eyes which, I noted with some disquiet, held an exhaustion which was most unusual for him at the closure of a case. Perhaps, somehow, the heart which had once loved Anna-Marie had felt some presentiment of Lestrade's purpose in coming to Baker Street that morning; I shall never know.

"Pray tell, Lestrade, what purpose you have in knocking us up at such an unfashionable hour," said he, his sardonic drawl lacking its usual asperity. I was surprised to see just how thin his façade appeared to _my_ accustomed eyes – how much, then, had his quick-footed asperity in the past been equal pretence?

"Well, Mr Holmes, we've, ah..." Lestrade hesitated, his narrow face pinched with anxiety and the pallor of a night spent without sleep. I realised, with a thrill of fear of my own, that it was _Holmes_ for whom he was concerned. Lestrade drew in a reluctant breath. "We've had a suicide. Woman, found in a bath, bottle of brandy along with some pills beside her. We've kept everything _in situ_ for you."

Holmes shot Lestrade a searching and impatient glance with which I had seen him scan many a crime scene or possible criminal in the past. Usually, that gaze revealed everything to his knowing eyes.

"And what would you commonplace, garden-variety suicide have about it to hold any interest for me? I mean, really, Lestrade, if the modern police force cannot even solve a simple case of -"

"It was Miss O'Doherty!" Lestrade exclaimed. Holmes' beration had produced the desired effect of shocking information out of Lestrade, though it could hardly have come in any less desired or expected form. I watched with a quiet, terrible awe as Holmes' face became suddenly bloodless, and the hound lounging carelessly on the arm of his chair quivered slightly. Holmes noted this latter point at the same moment I did, and he glared at the offending hand before clenching it, firmly, quite still.

"The older one, surely?" He asked lightly. "In prison? If so, it is no great loss..." He fell silent, and I followed his gaze to Lestrade's eyes, which were full of what was really a helpless sympathy but which must have seemed to Holmes and damning pity. Sherlock Holmes had already deduced the truth, had probably guessed it from the moment Lestrade had started to describe the poor woman's suicide, but for the first time in his brilliant life he needed someone else to state the obvious for him to be able to believe it. I can only wonder at what struggle took place in Sherlock Holmes' mind and heart that day; his great mind knew the facts and yet his heart, irrational as any human being's, refused to accept them.

"No, Mr Holmes." Lestrade said quietly, with a terrible gentleness of tone. "The younger one. Anna-Marie."

For the merest moment I saw the very great pain within those grey eyes, but then they were closed, and when Holmes' opened them again the emotion her surely felt was quite hidden; not by his usual mask, perhaps, but by the stiff, glazed mask worn by all bereaved. I had learnt more than I could ever have desired of my friend over the last few weeks, but even in the worst possible situation I was oddly heartened to see undeniable proof of that which I had always suspected – Holmes' humanity.

"Come, Watson," said he, and by his voice he was almost normal, though I knew he could not be, "we have an unfortunate, but unavoidable, duty to attend to."

Wordless, astonished by the strange turn which events had transpired to take, I followed his entirely straight back out of the door, and neither Lestrade nor myself made any comment when he took the steps like a much older man, gripping the handrail tight and moving with a sudden heaviness of step.

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**A/N:** Yes, it is ridiculously short. I thought the posting of it, however, would tide me over until I manage to type up the final chapter from my notepad! (Which I _am_ getting on with. Right now!)


	10. Chapter Ten: The Closing of the Case

**A/N:** At last! It's finished! I'm sorry it took so long but, unfortunately, I am a pretty inconstant writer; thankyou to all of you for sticking with it! Last week I finally figured out how I wanted to end this (after all, who is organised enough to plan stories?), and so have finally written this, the final chapter. It's certainly turned out differently to what I expected – here was I, wanting to leave the 'canon' unchanged and what have I done? Well, read on and you'll see...

**Continuity Note:** Apologies to all readers who actually know about the SH timeline and try to stick with it – as it has already been noted, I have taken slight artistic licenses with the dates! However, the story has been told, so I hope you will forgive my ignorance!

**To all my reviewers:** Thankyou! I am a fickle creature and would probably not have finished it without your frequent words of encouragement. You're all great!

**Disclaimer:** All praise must go to Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the wonderful characters with which I have toyed for the last few months. Now... on with the ending!

**Chapter Ten**

Holmes was silent as we rattled along in the dusty hansom Lestrade had appropriated for the journey, and I avoided glancing at his face too often for fear that close scrutiny would reveal what I dreaded most of all – the breakdown of what I perceived to be Holmes' very great, but most of all very _fragile_, heart. To my surprise, however, when we stepped out of the carriage into a somewhat disreputable street, the expression on his face was one of slight boredom, and the expression in his voice that of calm professionalism.

"Come, Watson," he said, moving at once to a door guarded by that most stolid, solid of breeds – a London policeman. The steps to the door were dirty and worn, and I wondered at what kind of life Anna-Marie had experienced, after her affair with Holmes, to lead her here, to this house and her eventual suicide. I was shocked, I think, looking back through the faithful glass of experience, shocked at my own naïvety – I had always thought of love as a pure thing, full of light even through the shadow of death which parted me from my own wife. Now I realised that between two ill-fated and ill-matched people it could become cold, hard, and unforgiving as a knife.

Lestrade led us up the grimy stairs and, with an expression of great regret, into the bathroom where Anna-Marie had extinguished her own life. She lay there still, the water drained but the white slip she wore quite damp, so that any modesty she might have hoped for was not retained. I watched carefully as a dark, ugly look crossed Sherlock Holmes' face.

"For God's sake, cover her up." He said sharply, but before the police officers could react to his abrupt order he had removed his own overcoat and laid it across Anna-Marie's body, leaving only her face exposed. His hand drifted across her cheek, and for a moment one long finger was almost extended to stroke her hair, but before it did he pulled away, covered her face with the coat, and clenched his hand, firmly, by his side.

"Well, Lestrade," he said, his grey eyes – for once neither calm nor cold – still fixed upon the draped, almost sleeping, figure of the woman he had once tried to love, "it looks like a simple case of suicide. I cannot think why you needed my confirmation of such a fact." His tone contained a valiant attempt at sarcasm, but I could hear the self-accusation in his voice, could see the bitter self-disgust in his expression. Suddenly, a voice spoke from the door.

"It was not because of you." It was John Holmes – or rather, O'Doherty. Holmes turned his gaze to meet a pair of eyes that were so inexplicably like his own, whilst Lestrade spluttered in impotent indignation.

"I ordered – he was not supposed to see -"

John's calm gaze flickered to the bathtub, and a spasm of pain crossed his youthful face, but he recovered quickly, folding his arms across his chest and looking back at Holmes, who nodded slowly. Some communication passed between the two in that moment, though I can scarce imagine what images and emotions it contained. Sherlock Holmes turned to Lestrade, a single eyebrow raised.

"If you would give us some privacy, Inspector."

For a moment, Lestrade seemed about to argue – he certainly puffed in offence for a moment – but then sighed and nodded. His officers left the room. He turned to Holmes, his swift eyes glancing between the two, the child and the man, who seemed to be holding such a silent communion.

"Very well, Holmes. We shall be outside." Lestrade left then, and I made to follow him, but Holmes called me back.

"Watson. Stay."

I too, turned ready to argue, but when I saw the look in his eyes I ceased my protests. John, too, looked grateful, for he nodded at me with a tight, taut smile. He seemed much older than he had been when I had first met him.

"Yes, I have grown up," the boy said, exhibiting Holmes' own unnerving capacity for mind-reading, "for I have learnt about myself these past few days, and self-knowledge is the most altering of all _science_." He looked at Holmes. "I have learnt of you, too."

Holmes tensed as he often did when he was at the true end of a case, like a hound that has caught the undiluted scent of the rabbit it has been chasing ceaselessly across field and fence. His eyes were bright and his usually pale cheeks flushed. He glanced, with some apparent effort, at Anna-Marie's covered body.

"You say she did not – I?" His words were halting, such as I had never heard. I had never expected to hear Holmes lost for words; the experience was not one which I like to dwell on even now. The young man – he seemed a boy no longer, after all – was, to the contrary, quite collected when he replied;

"No. She had consumption."

"Ah." Holmes let out a sigh and closed his eyes, briefly. "She wished to... end it, before the illness became too advanced, then?" There was an almost grateful tone in his voice; now he could blame the ministrations of fate and mother nature rather than his own cold nature for the death of Anna-Marie. Whilst his eyes were closed, I noticed that John let _his_ own mask down for a moment; his face seemed that of a boy's again, and his expression trembled. His weakness, brought on by the brief respite from Holmes' scrutiny, lasted only as long as Holmes' did. When Holmes re-opened his eyes, John was ready to go on, and did.

"I... told you, last night, that I had deceived you upon the point of my parentage. Later that night, my... aunt, Anna-Marie," he glanced towards the bath, of which only the iron-wrought feet could be seen, "disillusioned me of that thought. It was only in telling you that that you were not my sire that I truly committed a fallacy."

Holmes stood quite still, his expression taut. When he spoke, it was but one word, and his voice was quite hollow. I do believe that he had predicted already the conversation that would follow, and that it filled him with dismay.

"How?"

John turned, quite calmly, away from the body and regarded Holmes with a calm, clinical eye. I would have thought this unnatural, had I not long ago perceived Holmes' own ability to detach himself emotionally from situations in which such reactions would be adverse to his professional abilities. John – rightly John Holmes – had inherited this ability and was using it like the child he was; to protect himself in the horrific situation which now surrounded him. I shall never know how the boy survived those few awful hours between learning of his true birthright and confronting his own father with the facts; all I can say now, upon a decade of watching him grow and learn, that he is of strong mettle, stronger even perhaps than that of my good friend Sherlock Holmes.

"When you left Anna-Marie," the boy began clinically, "and she discovered she was with child, she made no attempt to contact you. I believe her own pride in part would not allow it – she told me last night that she was wary of trapping you in a relationship which you did not want. She recognised your utter unsuitability as a husband and..." for a single moment, he looked uncertain, "...as a father."

Holmes inclined his head, his face impassive, though I could but guess at the turmoil that was occurring beneath his calm brow that night. John continued, his face a little pale.

"She informed her father who, though he apparently threatened to march you to the church himself, eventually conceded that to do so would only compound his favourite daughter's unhappiness. He could not, however, allow such scandal to mar the name of Anna-Marie and, in turn, that of the rest of her family. Fortunately," he slowed, his grey eyes dim, "his other daughter, Celise, was married, at the time to a rich, respectable, but very kindly gentleman by the name of Frederick Moncrief, who had a certain fondness both for children and for his pretty sister-in-law. Both he and Celise agreed to pass the child off as their own. When my mother went into confinement – though as far as society was concerned she was merely holidaying in Europe – my _aunt_, whom I have called 'mother' all my life, went with her. Understand," his voice quietened, and became, if possible, even more low and serious, "I never suffered unkindness at the hands of my adoptive parents, not until my mother – Celise – was widowed and fell under the influence of the man she now calls husband. She had always resented you," he nodded towards Holmes, "for what you inflicted upon her sister, and when _Jude_, like the conniving lackey that he is, quietly suggested a way in which she could achieve revenge, incriminate you, and possibly blackmail you into the bargain..." he trailed off, and shrugged a little hopelessly.

"Blackmail?" Holmes asked. He was shying from the true issue; every instinct in him was screaming to speak of the case, anything to avoid confronting the fact that the boy in front of him bore half his blood, and almost all of his qualities.

"Indeed." John said curtly, but said no more. We all knew that Holmes could extrapolate his own conclusions on that matter easily enough; even I, with far less deductive faculties than either of the grey-eyed genii in the room with me, could see that Celise O'Doherty had intended to threaten to make Holmes' relationship with John public – a revelation that would have ruined him. With this thought I realised that which John and Sherlock had both already realised – that the truths we had learned in this grimy bathroom would change nothing.

Holmes swallowed, and took a half-step towards John before stepping back again, his expression oddly conflicted. I had never known him to doubt before tonight.

"I could declare you publicly as my son..." He began, but John Holmes cut him off, his expression disgusted.

"And achieve what? With society as it is now, you will ruin yourself with it, and I will forever be stigmatised as a bastard." His language was that of an adult, and he used it stiltingly, but with an anger that I think a cuckoo knows on at last finding its way back to its true nest and finding the way barred. "Better to be the son of a jailbird, with a name, and a future, than to have us both dragged to poverty. And you could not prove it. The bureaucrats will look at my birth certificate and deny you any rights to my guardianship. There is no..." he paused, thoughtfully, "...no test of blood to prove one's parentage, no gauge, no proof. Not yet."

Holmes pursed his lips, and glanced once more at the bathtub.

"There is proof enough in your face," said he, though he did not look at John as he said it, "God knows how I was fool enough to miss it. Perhaps, when a way out was given to me, I was too eager to take it. I am sorry for this."

"I was eager as well," John said softly, and he seemed more like a child than he had all night, "too pretend in the first that you were my father. I had never been in my own environment with Frederick, though he was very good to me."

There was a great silence. I had never really understood what one meant by a _pregnant pause_ until that moment; now I know that it is one filled with hopes that can never be fulfilled, and hateful phrases that can never be spoken.

"I will provide for your schooling, of course," Holmes said. John nodded, then his mask of adulthood broke, and he seemed to be on the verge of tears.

"Father..." he stopped, attempting it seemed to swallow his tears. It is little wonder, that with the tragedy the last few days had held for him – the loss of the woman he thought of as his mother, then the loss of his real mother, and then the loss of any hope of a true father – that he was quite unable to do so.

I have noted before that Holmes is, at time to time, capable of great acts of compassion. That night, however, was surely his greatest, when he did what was quite unnatural to him and took in his arms a son he knew he could never embrace again, and held him until his tears quieted.

"I know of a school," Holmes said softly, "where such talents as yours shall not go to waste. I shall write to the headmaster tomorrow; he is a friend of mine and will see nothing amiss in my recommending a qualified student."

Later that night, once Anna-Marie's body had been taken away and John Holmes was asleep in his father's room at Baker Street, Holmes lit his pipe and turned to me with an expression of utter exhaustion.

"Letting him go, Watson," he said, his voice hoarse, "was the most difficult thing I have ever done."

I said nothing, but I sought his shoulder with my hand and held it, tight, for some minutes afterwards.

888

This may seem to you, reader of this grim narrative, as a poor ending for an story, particularly one so marked with death and confusion. I did not, however, write it entirely as a dirge, designed to send all who read it away with a sense of the injustice of human love and existence. I was prompted to finally pen the events of ten years ago when, last week, Holmes and I received a visit from a tall, elegant young man just beginning university. Holmes and I were seated, talking quietly, when the door burst open without any warning and a gust of wind preceded the entrance of the lanky figure which threw itself into the chair opposite with great aplomb.

"John," Holmes said, not looking up from his book. "You have been enjoying Oxford, then, but have run out money and perhaps, truly stimulating conversation and have come to London to beg both from your much-loved and much-ignored uncle?"

John smiled broadly, whilst I shook my head. It was often extremely difficult to follow any conversation between the two of them, mainly because each of them predicted the other's words and interpreted their actions without any need for further communication.

"I have been enjoying... yes, of course, you can smell the alcohol and smoke, can you not? Of course I have run out of money; the state of my clothes and the sparseness of my figure belies that, though the latter I believe I can blame, genetically at least, on you, uncle of my mother's side," he grinned at the reference, a reference that he and Holmes had long since forgotten to feel any pain at and now delighted in coming up with obscure euphemisms for, "and as for the conversation, why, I could just as easily throw myself on the executors of my father Lord Moncrief's estate for money, but I would be bored stiff by them, so yes, I daresay that we might cover a few interesting topics whilst I am here. I say, has Mrs Hudson anything cooking? I confess I am quite famished." John Holmes – though the world knew his as John Moncrief, and he published under the name of O'Doherty –had inherited a particular loquaciousness that was certainly not down to his blood father, and he had re-written several of Holmes' monographs in a somewhat more accessible tone and style. Holmes, as ever, was unfazed by the barrage of words. Perhaps he had been quite similar in his days of student-life – though I doubted it.

"Why, do not all the brains of Oxford fulfil your thirst for conversation? That is, I suppose, our curse."

I rose, for the pair were about to leap onto their favourite topic – that of the peculiar intellectuality which separated them both from the rest of us mere mortals – and took my coat down from its peg, bending to retrieve John's coat from where he had thrown it in the process. John looked up and winked, and I was struck, as I always am when I meet him, by both the merriness in eyes which might otherwise have belonged to Holmes, and the fact that though they had seen so much they could still _be_ thus filled with joy.

"Hullo, Uncle John, have we scared you off?"

"As always," I said, and for my pains was treated with a great, beaming smile that looked so alien on that face, which was after all but a youthful reflection of that of my greatest friend.

"Are you thinking of writing any more of your monographs, uncle?" He asked eagerly. "The last was very good, if I do say so." Holmes shifted in his chair; he found John's appreciation of my writings quite incomprehensible, though I, having seen their scripts lining his room and therefore his childhood, well understood it.

"I am unsure. There are few left to write, unbelievable as that may seem."

John laughed.

"You could always tell _my_ story, uncle," he said, his earnest expression ruined by the fact that a few moments later Holmes began to shake with laughter. John soon followed suit, and I shook my head once more. It always amazed me how lightly the two now seemed to take the nature of their relationship, though perhaps they, as the true philosophers that they were, could accept it on an intellectual level and ignore whatever emotional response their hearts had to it. It was one of the few subjects on which John could ever make Holmes laugh.

It may have been a joke, I mused, but as I walked alone through the quiet, evening streets I mused that it was not, in fact, a _bad_ idea. Secrets can be almost as damning as the truth, and I did not think John should have to take such a lie to _his_ grave, though Holmes and I may take it to ours. It was the world's problem, as John had said that fateful night, that they would not accept the product of any illegitimate union, but the world was ripe for change. Perhaps, one day, the truth could be known without retribution, and John Holmes could publish his brilliant works – his father's knowledge tempered by his talent for words and understanding of people – under his rightful name.

That night, I began to pen the record which you have now come to the end of, and it is almost doubtless that I will be dead when you read this. I will lay a clause in my will that this, along with certain others held in a sealed trunk, are not to be read until ten years after my death. John Holmes will, I hope and pray, still be alive and well, and you, dear reader, will know the truth – the whole truth, finally, about the great, good, but entirely flawed man that is Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes purges his guilt over the secret by laughing at oblique mention of it. I have cauterised my own wounds, now, with the only balm I know; words and writing. I am glad to have known Sherlock Holmes, but I am twice as glad to have been privileged to know his son, and to see those two great minds interact.

After all, John's visits save Holmes from any melancholy or boredom, and therefore from the needle in the morocco case. We must thank heaven for small miracles.

888

**A/N:** So? What did you think? Please leave a review!


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